


the long and ordinary day

by pinkmoon



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Child Frodo Baggins, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkmoon/pseuds/pinkmoon
Summary: First, there was a clatter, followed closely by a small voice choking out a curse.Bilbo looked up from the pages of his book, resting his quill on a tray, and turned towards the now-ajar door of his study.“Pardon,” said Frodo. And after a beat he added, “And I did not swear. You may have misheard me.”A look into the early days of Frodo moving in with Bilbo at Bag End.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Frodo Baggins
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	the long and ordinary day

First, there was a clatter, followed closely by a small voice choking out a curse.

Bilbo looked up from the pages of his book, resting his quill on a tray, and turned towards the now-ajar door of his study.

“Pardon,” said Frodo. And after a beat he added, “And I did not swear. You may have misheard me.”

Frodo did not turn to leave but instead lingered in the open doorway, small and solitary in the ample space; the image of a lone tooth protruding in a baby’s mouth sprung to Bilbo’s mind.

“My dear lad,” Bilbo began, and cleared his throat, dusty from disuse. “Are you in need of something?”

The light in the windows had dimmed to a blue-grey, which meant Bilbo had written straight through the afternoon, late enough that the sun had tipped beneath the horizon.

“Sorry to startle you,” Frodo answered. He shifted his weight between his feet and let his gaze wander to the overstuffed bookshelves.

“No, I think I quite needed a startling. It’s gotten late.”

Frodo nodded, largely unperplexed. He stepped inside the study and wandered towards a cluttered side table. 

“I do believe I’ve forgotten how many times a day a child like yourself needs to eat,” Bilbo said.

“I’m not a child,” Frodo answered dourly, then abruptly his disposition shifted and he held an old piece of parchment aloft, chirping, “may I touch this?”

It was truly only his moodiness that ever fully signaled Frodo’s young age. He otherwise carried himself with a sort of self-sufficiency that made it easy for Bilbo to forget his whereabouts, or his needs. Bilbo had trouble recalling himself below the age of twenty, but he imagined he too would have chafed at intimations of his naivete. 

“Yes, you may touch that,” Bilbo said, with little purpose, as Frodo was already closely examining whatever it was.

But despite Frodo’s ability to seemingly safely disappear for hours at a time, or Bilbo’s continued surprise that he now had a child in the house despite a lifetime of swearing them off, Frodo was very much a child. A child who’d become quite accustomed to disappearing into the warm chaos of Brandy Hall, adhering to the schedules of whomever he followed around that day. And, likely, a child who had now wandered as nonchalantly as he could muster into Bilbo’s orbit, unsure of how to remind him of the necessity of supper time.

“Let the two of us light some lanterns and get some food in our stomachs,” Bilbo announced, grunting as he pushed away from the desk and onto his feet. He teetered as he found himself quite numb below the knee, and regretted sitting for so long.

“Oh, I suppose. If _you’re_ hungry,” Frodo mumbled, and pointedly looked around the room to avoid making eye contact. 

“Come, dear boy. We will walk into the pantry and see what’s available, and you will demand what you want made for you.”

Bilbo settled his hand on the top of Frodo’s head, ruffling his wind-knotted hair, and escorted him out into the dim hallway. 

“I will do no such thing!” Frodo protested, but whatever severity he aimed for was all but lost in the breathless way he suppressed his giggling. “I have perfect manners. You’ll see.”

“You do? Then I will stamp _my_ feet until you cook dinner for me.”

“I will not!” Frodo laughed. “I’m too hungry to think clearly. You couldn’t trust me with a knife.”

“Ah, so then you are hungry,” Bilbo countered, and Frodo shrugged his shoulders.

“I suppose I could be.”

Frodo plucked whatever he fancied off the shelves, and Bilbo examined the lot, wondering how best to utilize white button mushrooms and beetroot and cauliflower. 

“I do want to say,” began Frodo, jostling Bilbo from his contemplation. He looked over and found Frodo chewing his thumbnail thoughtfully. He decided not to press him, waiting for Frodo to speak again of his own volition.

“I want to say thank you,” he continued. “For making space for me in your home, but also in your time, and efforts.”

There again was that unusual maturity. Bilbo still could not discern if it came from fine education, or too much adult influence, or the sort of resilience that follows being touched by great tragedy. Bilbo did not speak of it often, but he understood that particular world-weary loneliness more deeply than most. 

Frodo exhaled all his held breath at once, visibly jangly with nerves. 

“Of course, dear boy,” Bilbo said, and clapped a hand onto one of Frodo’s anxious, rounded shoulders. “I promise you, what is mine is yours, and your company has been an immense pleasure. Please don’t mistake the old habits of a Mad Baggins for disinterest. If you need me awake, you shall wake me. If you need my assistance, you shall yell for me. No exceptions.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“I’ll ask you to promise me!”

“I do promise you,” Frodo answered. “I do. Thank you.”

And he stood up straighter, then, and poked curiously at one of the fatter mushroom caps.

“May I try cutting these?” he asked, keen blue eyes scanning the countertop for something sharp. “I promise to be careful.”

“Only if you’ll tell me where a boy your age learned curse words like that,” Bilbo mused. “Not from good Master Saradoc, I assume.”

“You’d be surprised where you can learn a great many new phrases,” Frodo cavalierly answered, taking a slow, confident lap around the kitchen with his hands in his pockets, looking as if he'd been born in the place. “But you did mishear me. I used no such words.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a lovely poem called "A Happy Childhood" by William Matthews.
> 
> "It turns out you are the story of your childhood   
> and you’re under constant revision,   
> like a lonely folktale whose invisible folks
> 
> are all the selves you’ve been, lifelong,   
> shadows in fog, grey glimmers at dusk."


End file.
